Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge in the Hindu religion, and my dad found the name while he was reading the Mahabharata. I always thought that living up to the name would be my greatest challenge, but in fact have found more and more that I live by the spirit and inspiration of my name; I don’t have to work against what my name means, as long as I am willing to live inside it.

I remember my father printing out an info page from the internet about Saraswati as part of a birthday gift once; at the time I assumed that he wanted me to appreciate what I had been given at birth. Now that I think back on that moment, I find that it was the first time that I had read any information about my name – and the knowledge has stayed with me. Perhaps my father wasn’t trying to get me to appreciate what I had been given; perhaps he was trying to inspire me, or show how similar I was to the Goddess Saraswati.

A few years ago I got a tattoo of a swan on the back of my neck, visible only when my hair is up and never visible to me unless I use two mirrors to see it. I designed it myself, and the shape of the swan – a large, curving S, the segments in the swan’s body – were supposed to spell my name, but very discreetly. Most people don’t see my name there, which is fine, because it is not for them to see. The tattoo, for me, is more personal than anything else – it is also aesthetic, but the ink beneath my skin – this act of writing on myself, owning my body – links my physical and ideological spheres.

Why a swan? The swan is the chosen animal of Saraswati, as opposed to the prideful peacock. The swan represents purity and discrimination between true and false knowledge or words. And more importantly, the swan is strongly connected to water. All my life, I have found joy and peace in the sight of water. It is said that Saraswati is associated with flowing water, and I feel an intimate connection with this aspect of the goddess’s nature. Living in Calgary, away from the ocean, I found myself drawn to the Bow river – I remember sitting by the river, alone, just watching it flow. I missed visiting the beach, feeling the roll of the waves, the sweeping of the tide around my ankles, and the warm, welcoming smell of the salty sea water. The day I arrived in Vancouver, it was ten o’clock at night and we had spent thirteen hours on the road – but the minute I stepped out of the car, I caught the smell of sea on the air and knew, instantly, that I would love this city. I have spent time on Granville Island, sitting on the dock and watching the boats float across the bay, following the progress of dragon boats as they race across the surface of the water.

Living into my name – and coming to like it – has been a slow-going process. I remember thinking of it as unwieldy, too ethnic, and wondering why I would be named after a Hindu goddess, since my family is not Hindu. I have feared having people mispronounce it, as they often do, and making it sound awkward in my ears. There is nothing more awkward-sounding than someone trying to get their tongue around pronouncing your name. And so I’ve always preferred Saras – and hold this nickname close to my identity. I have often seen my full name printed on paper, but hearing it aloud has become something strange and a little alien. I always immediately ask for people to call me Saras, and usually cringe when someone I know well uses my full name. Poor Saraswati has been condemned to live mostly on paper.

I know what it feels like to try to live into a name; to have that name guide you be a better version of yourself, or to have you understand its origins and recognize that you come from the same place. I may not be Saraswati yet, and am content, for now, to be Saras – but perhaps someday, when I feel older and wiser, our paths will converge.

I read Emma Donoghue’s Room, which is a pretty haunting tale told from the point of view of Jack, the 5-year-old son of a woman who had been raped and imprisoned (with her son) for 7 long years in a shed.

Although I find the book a riveting read, I’m not so sure if the content would be as interesting to a high school student. Having worked with many children in previous jobs, I appreciate Donoghue’s effort to write realistically from the point of view of a 5-year-old, which could not be easy. On top of this potential lack of connection with high school students, the subject matter is highly disturbing (the rape is never mentioned in detail, but this does not make the read any easier).

Reading Room does make me think about the benefits of reading something that is borderline disturbing, or uncomfortable. Sometimes it forces empathy from the reader, but sometimes it also forces us to consider what larger social issues lie behind the problems in the books we read.

A response to Leah C. Fowler’s article “Why does reading Canadian literature in school matter?”

This article can be found in:

James, K., Dobson, T., Leggo, C., eds. English in Middle and Secondary Classrooms: Creative and Critical Advice from Canada’s Teacher Educators. Toronto: Pearson, 2012.

Fowler argues that reading Can Lit in the classroom prompts questions such as “Where are we?”, “Why are we here?” and “What shall we do together?” This kind of awareness promotes unity and serves as good opening questions to a class discussion on Can Lit.

As a future educator, I realize I know little about the field of Can Lit. I read Margaret Atwood, Yann Martel and Rohinton Mistry in high school without realizing that they were Canadian; I remember enjoying their works, and I guess if I had to write a lesson plan for a Can Lit unit I’d be able to do so. In university, I took more Can Lit, reading Michael Ondaatje, Marie-Claire Blais, Robert Kroetsch and Ann-Marie Macdonald, among others. I’m not quite sure if these works are secondary-level appropriate, however.

My goal over the next term is to read as many secondary-appropriate Can Lit novels as possible; I need to get back to pleasure reading anyway, and having more knowledge of the field will allow me to have more ammo as I dive into teaching. I was then thinking of doing a Prezi/mind map project to come up with some cross-literary themes and ideas for student projects.

In related matters, a student in my class today expressed her dislike of the idea of “force-feeding” students literature just because it falls under a certain category (she named CanLit specifically). I very much agree that works should be shared based on the value one finds in sharing it, not its external descriptors. Calling something “CanLit” does nothing to tell us what the book will be about, the value of the book, or how well it’s written. I find it important, however, to share Canadian Literature the same way I find it important to buy local produce from farmer’s markets. Sure, we can’t always get what we want locally, and sure, sometimes the quality of something imported is better, but that doesn’t mean that our local producers have nothing to offer. It’s this appreciation – the appreciation that the country we identify with has something valuable to share with us – that is the important part about CanLit (valuable CanLit), I think.

A response to Bronwen E. Low’s article “What do hip-hop, spoken word, and slam poetry have in common and how might they be used in a secondary school English classroom?”

This article can be found in:

James, K., Dobson, T., Leggo, C., eds. English in Middle and Secondary Classrooms: Creative and Critical Advice from Canada’s Teacher Educators. Toronto: Pearson, 2012.

Low’s article quoted rapper and educator KRS-One as saying, “rap music is something we do, but hip hop is something we live.” This assertion underlines rap (and therefore spoken word) as a vehicle to convey a lifestyle choice. Dismissing rap or spoken word in the classroom as “not good enough”, therefore, can be tantamount to marginalizing the voices and expressions of a whole community (a community that many high school students are a part of!) I have always enjoyed and connected with spoken word, and although I am not a huge fan of rap, I appreciate the effort and extreme skill it takes to be a good rap artist, just as much as I appreciate the efforts and skills of writers who produce literary canons.

I did my undergraduate honours thesis on an art form that is seldom academically appreciated: stand-up comedy. In taking an active stance to bring stand-up comedy into the world of academia, I felt like I was supporting and validating an aspect of culture that needed more respect in academia.

Therefore, as a beginning to the journey of bringing academically-marginalized art forms into my classroom, I will attempt to give rap some validation in this response. How? Low’s article mentions that Morrell and Duncan-Andrade (2004) created a lesson plan where students were invited to match canonical poems with contemporary rap songs. I really liked this idea because it shows how humans today struggle with some of the same issues, or celebrate some of the same joys, that humans did hundreds of years ago. It unifies our shared human experiences and shows that human expression, regardless of form, should be equally appreciated and considered.

I decided to try this exercise myself and add an extra layer to it: I will match a rap song with a canonical poem and then write an original spoken-word poem that matches the theme of the other two. Asking students to do the same will allow them to learn crucial language skills: understanding how vocabulary and language changes depending on context, identifying important social or personal issues in poetry and other art forms, and creating original works that allow them to develop their own written ideas, style and personality.

I have chosen Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377) and Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” (http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/eminem/loseyourself.html). Although the two are very different, I found both to have a shared urgency about seizing the moment, or seizing the day (carpe diem).

Thomas’s poem tells the reader to “not go gentle into that good night” and to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Thomas’s subject matter revolves around aging and living life to its fullest potential while it lasts.

Eminem’s lyrics, on the other hand, are not about aging, but rather more about taking chances when you get them: “You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you better never let it go, you only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo.” Despite this difference, both works have a hopeful message of empowerment: take the chance, live your life, don’t let it pass you by.

Finally, here is my own contribution:

Jigsaw

I have met them, those people who

packed their lives into suitcases and

took off, feeling like their world would never

be big enough; and I’ve tried it,

racing against time as I realize that

I wish I had a time barrel that would store

every second as it fell from the clock

in order to breathe more, feel more, see more.

I’m always told “the time is NOW” and

that everything else, somehow,

will fall into place; I think it’s more like

how we find pieces to our jigsaws

along the way –

they might not necessarily fit together,

but you’ll keep them because

someday later you’ll find

that missing piece that goes between.

Sometimes you’ll pocket a piece of sunshine

and sometimes a little of rain,

and perhaps, unwillingly, that storm cloud

that washes the sunshine away.

I have had my share of all

and know that while the sun

has warmed me on my way,

it is lightning that has struck me,

loved me,

and left me changed;

believe me when I say storms

are sometimes the best things;

even as they leave you battered,

their spark tends to remind you

that yeah, you’re living,

and you’ve survived.

I know I’ll meet many on my travels,

others who have their suitcases

never fully unpacked, always ready –

Others who will have umbrellas

for the rain and

mugs of hot cocoa for the storms

and perhaps some others who

will be ready to

find how their missing jigsaw pieces

fit into my own.

Writing prompt: Write about a literacy narrative from school.

I loved reading and writing as a small child. I felt such pride when I finished a book, logged it into my reading log, and had it initialed by my parents. I also loved writing stories and drawing pictures to go along with them. At least until grade 5, my ambition in life was to become a writer. It didn’t seem like there was anything else I felt I could do half as well.

There was one problem, however: I didn’t like showing my writing to anyone, especially not my fiction. I’m not sure when the bashfulness started, because as a grade 1 student, I would let anyone read my stories. As my stories matured, and as I became more secretive, spending most of my time in my room, I became shyer about letting someone else read my work. I remember that, upon one occasion, I carelessly left my handwritten pages somewhere outside my room, and my dad found them. He read them and, being an English teacher, praised me for my diction and imagination. Despite his praise, however, I was utterly mortified, and I wept inconsolably. It felt like an invasion of privacy, as if someone had read my personal thoughts. Having someone else read my creative work left me feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it was because I wanted to be perceived as being a logical human being; while I openly enjoyed reading fantasy novels like Harry Potter or His Dark Materials, I didn’t want to be judged on the quality of my imagination in writing. I wrote many school essays and proudly shared them with teachers and peers, but to this day, sharing creative work always takes an extra bit of self-encouragement.

Enrolling in creative writing classes in high school was probably the best thing I ever did to partially overcome my fear. I still loved writing, and because a class of a dozen or so students was writing with me, I didn’t feel as vulnerable. I was aware that I censored myself quite heavily, though, staying clear of all intimations of personally sensitive material. When I did try to be emotionally involved in my writing, the product usually came out very abstract and distant, without using the pronoun “I” anywhere.

Although I do still write creatively today, I am still very secretive about it. The role of creative writing for me today is largely cathartic. I think that’s OK, although I will always admire those who put their work forward for scrutiny. Good on you; it takes courage.

A response to Erika Hasebe-Ludt’s article “How can life writing be an effective approach and teaching strategy with English Language Learners from mixed linguistic and racial/cultural backgrounds?”

This article can be found in:

James, K., Dobson, T., Leggo, C., eds. English in Middle and Secondary Classrooms: Creative and Critical Advice from Canada’s Teacher Educators. Toronto: Pearson, 2012.

Hasebe-Ludt’s article gave me the impetus to try to write in my other mother tongue, Indonesian. It has been awhile since I’ve had to write anything in this language, so I feel a bit rusty.

Sudah lama sejak It’s been a long time since

aku berbahasa; I last used my language;

rasanya bahasaku feels like my tongue

dan aku and I

sudah saling lupa; have forgotten one another;

tapi seperti teman lama, but like old friends,

waktu bertemu when we met

kita bisa saling berbagi we could share with each other

saling mengerti understand one another

dan selalu saling and always, one to the other,

memaafkan khilaf. forgive mistakes made.

Although this segment is not about life-writing, using the language of my Indonesian heritage challenges me to think in a wholly different way, both syntactically as well as lexically. Asking students to be creative could start from this point; just asking them to think in a different language could change their whole outlook, and influence their writing dramatically.

Whether or not a student speaks another language does not seem to be matter for life-writing; as Hasebe-Ludt puts it, “Life writing can heal the ground you tremble on and heart you hurt with, to restore and re-story our mixed – métis – common ground.”

In my grade 10 creative writing class, one of our prompts revolved around writing our pasts in progression with time. Our teacher ended up compiling the results into a booklet that I still have to this day. Here was my entry, dated 12/9/2005:

Past on Paper

First sheet blank and expectant

The brush sweeps over —

White walls, an emerald lawn, marigolds

Riot of joyous colour and loving strokes —

A little drop of red, nothing serious

And a whiff of damp leaves

Both more real than the colour,

Yet ever so faint in comparison.

Second sheet timid and anxious

The soft crayon strokes over —

A tiny garage, miniature porch, rabbits

Swirl of hues and blurred edges —

An ugly stain, right in the center

And the aroma of stale baking

Both more bitter than the image

And much clearer in comparison.

Third sheet hopeful and scared

The hard pencil scribbles over —

Bamboo trees, a swimming pool, a dark gate

Scratches of shades and confused composition —

A jagged tear across the page

Emanating sour chlorine

Both more hurtful than the dark shades;

Ever stronger in comparison.

Last sheet weary of waiting

The black marker smudges over —

Independent rooms, locked front door, dogs

Deliberate lines and realistic shapes —

Tape-protected edges

And the usual stench of sweat

Both just as normal as the drawing;

No comparison.

A response to Lynne Wiltse’s article “Why is it important to consider cultural diversity in relation to text selection?”

This article can be found in:

James, K., Dobson, T., Leggo, C., eds. English in Middle and Secondary Classrooms: Creative and Critical Advice from Canada’s Teacher Educators. Toronto: Pearson, 2012.

What stuck with me after reading Wiltse’s article was the notion that choosing classroom texts that positively represented students in the class provided them with “cultural affirmation,” or the process of making a student feel proud of their culture by giving their culture value in the context of a class lesson.

When we think of a multicultural Canadian classroom, many students in that class come from families that practice cultures that are significantly different from the mainstream. In order to fit in with other students at school, however, students tend to merge their behaviour to match the mainstream, because this is what is seen as “normal” or “typical.” By giving students a chance to read something that is outside the mainstream tradition, not only is the teacher affirming the cultures of those students represented in the text, but he/she is also giving the mainstream students a chance to understand that there are other ways of living, and that these ways are equally valuable as their own.

As a reader, my favourite books are those that tend to drop me into someone else’s reality in another place in the world. Some memorable narratives include Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance, Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner, and Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club.

I followed Sarah Kay’s advice about making lists to get thinking creatively about materials for spoken word, and I created a list called “Ten things I wish I had never done”
Here was my list:
1. Left my blind pet rabbit to run around unsupervised in a backyard with a pool
2. Taken my mom’s car for an impromptu driving lesson with my brother around the block
3. Worn slick-bottomed shoes to school on a rainy day
4. Purposefully wore the wrong uniform to my strict Catholic school to “make a statement”
5. Ridden my tiny scooter on a 100k/h highway
6. Tried to park a Budget rental car in their narrow-entranced garage
7. Kicked a soccer ball at the window of a classroom (accidentally)
8. Eaten a whole package of Oreos in one sitting
9. Read Twilight and watched the movie
10. Read New Moon and watched that movie as well (including all other Twilight movies)

I chose to write and perform number 2. Here is the result:

Driving lesson

I was seventeen and my brother sixteen
and we had almost no experience behind the wheel,
WAIT, my mom would tell us,
wait for Canada, you can learn there,
Indonesia’s no place
for you to be learning standard
with the laneless roads, the lawless drivers, the relentless clutch-slamming in traffic
as pedestrians joy-jay-walk across roads,
as family-packed motorcycles squeeze past your mirrors,
or against them, depending on the driver,
so why bother?

You wouldn’t believe the number of times we badgered our mom
to let us drive alone in that gator-green Suzuki around the neighborhood
convinced we would get good;
So, still she muttered her prayers
every time she got into the passenger seat,
her feet brake-dancing to invisible pedals
for her hour of terror-packed “teaching the kids to drive”

I thought at the time that I was getting pretty good
at, you know, driving around the neighborhood,
so one day I took the keys and told my mom I was going to
“take a drive” no worries, no sweat,
no threat of crashing or killing,
I won’t forget:
“clutch – gas – brake”
in that order, and not to go too hard on the gas
while shifting out of neutral,
not to pass on the wrong side of the road –
yeah, I can do this, I thought, and yeah,
so can my brother.
yeah, that was the theory.

It could have been worse, I guess.
Sure, the family who owned the parked car we crashed into
looked at us like: “Of all things, you hit a parked car?”
And sure, my mom was giving us the look of “Why did I have kids?”
while my sister gave us the one of “I’m so glad I’m not you right now.”
But all in all we learned our lesson;
it only took one ripped tire, one 90-degree bent bumper, one angry mother,
one pissed family, and one moment in history that no one in my family
will ever let me forget.
Soon enough I would be good at driving
soon enough I would have my own wheels –
yeah, that was the theory.

Now that I’m twenty-four
and now that the only vehicle I’ve ever owned was a scooter
that maxed out at 60 k an hour before it died of engine problems…
I might just have to rethink my theory about driving
and getting good.
Maybe I’ll just wait for the day when
I can parallel-park a Car2Go
without having to take three tries…
or the day when I make enough on a teacher’s salary
to pay an experienced chauffeur to take me across town
in a totally pimpin ride with the bumper sticker:
“You learn from your mistakes” slapped across the back of that baby.
Yeah, that’s totally the theory.